


A New Year’s Supper

by SashaTheGypsy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Family History, Gen, H - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:42:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28871766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaTheGypsy/pseuds/SashaTheGypsy
Summary: I am Sasha the Gypsy, cousin to the legendary U.N.C.L.E. agent Illya Nicolayevich Kuryakin.I am the chronicler of his many adventures. Although my cousin is a very private man, he sometimes permits me to also share stories from his childhood snd private life.Tonight, a special tale for the season.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	A New Year’s Supper

Grandfather Frost and the Snow Maiden bring toys and gifts to Russian homes on New Year’s Eve. 

Sometimes, they have been known to bring stranger things. 

New Year’s Eve. Early evening. Cold, with light snow. Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, USSR.

Deputy Commissar of Trade Vladimir Mikhailovich Kuryakin strolled out the back door of the Soviet trade ministry. Tired from a long day of negotiations with a British delegation, he walked to his car and tossed his briefcase into the back seat. 

Slamming the door shut, the large man slid his too-long legs into the front seat, closed his eyes and sighed. 

“Those British are a tough group to bargain with, Gregory. Especially Lord Wilfrid. Seems he wants our good Soviet wheat. But for free.”

Getting no response from Gregory, his driver, Vladimir opened his eyes. There was no one at the wheel.

Visibly irritated and eager to get home for his supper, he opened his door, swung his legs out onto the snow-covered asphalt, and went in search of his man. 

As Vladimir rounded the corner by the metal garbage bins at the side of the building, he saw Gregory crouched down in the snow. The former Red Army soldier was staring at something in the rubbish. 

“Vladimir Mikhailovich,” said Gregory loudly. “I think you’d better come here.”

Vladimir took the distance in two long strides. Following Gregory’s eyes, he saw a crumpled figure lying among some papers. It was a boy. 

“What do we have here, Gregory?” he asked in surprise. 

“A boy, Comrade Commissar. He was getting in or out of the bin — I’m not sure which. He started to run off, I yelled at him. Then he seemed to feel faint, tried to grab hold of something, passed out and fell.”

Vladimir was alarmed. “Is he alive?”

“Yes. He’s breathing, but he’s whacked his head hard.”

The official knelt beside the unconscious boy. He was slight, with long, shaggy, blond hair, teenaged facial stubble, and of indeterminable age. Clad in a khaki padded jacket — much too thin for a Russian winter — he wore a plain white shirt, dark trousers and a pair of old Red Army boots. One boot had a hole in the sole. Vladimir looked around: no mittens, gloves, hat, or scarf in sight. A sheaved hunting knife was tucked into the inside of the boy’s left boot. 

The commissar felt gingerly for a pulse. There was one, but the boy looked deathly pale and his forehead was hot to the touch. His breathing was laboured and wheezy. 

“What shall we do with him, Vladimir Mikhailovich?” the driver asked. “Drop him at hospital?”

Vladimir hesitated. “He certainly needs medical attention. But I’m not sure taking him to an emergency room is the best solution. He could be homeless or a runaway.” Thinking intently for a moment, Vladimir made up his mind. “Let’s put him in the car and take him home until we find out more about him.”

“To Doctor Marta and Sasha? Yes. They will know what to do.”

Gregory went off to bring the car around. When he returned, the two men lifted the boy gently into the back seat of the car, then headed for home. 

Driving through the streets of Moscow, lit by soft, snow-covered streetlights, Vladimir turned to look at the young man in the back seat. He wasn’t overly sentimental by nature, but his fatherly instinct triggered feelings of both protectiveness and anger at whoever — or whatever — had placed this frail young man in this position. 

Who was he, and what was his story?

Dr. Marta Petrovna Kuryakina arrived home early from the hospital and was assisting housekeeper Maria (called Masha) with preparation of the New Year’s Eve supper.

It had been a good year for the Kuryakin family. Vladimir had been promoted a Deputy Commissar for Trade (Western Department). Marta joined her hospital’s senior medical staff. 

The petite, blonde physician had enjoyed many years of wedded bliss with her ‘Russian teddy bear’. At well over six feet tall, the middle-aged Vladimir was still an attractive man; fit, with hair the colour of dark wheat. They first met as students: she in medicine, and he in the school of economics. 

As wrestler and candidate for the Soviet men’s Olympic wrestling team, she first thought him vain and unfocused. A jock. But after injuries derailed his sports career, Vladimir turned his attention to his studies, quickly becoming a top student. He was employed by the trade ministry upon graduation, rose through the ranks, then proposed to his fair-haired beloved shortly after she graduated from medical school. After having three children of their own, their finances and circumstances allowed them to adopt another family of three orphans during a business trip to Kyiv. 

Vladimir’s job entitled them to a modest but comfortable brick house, a car and driver and, of course, Masha. 

The grandmotherly woman had been working all day to prepare the supper. Roasted duck, salads, potato piroshki, caviar and other traditional delicacies were all at various stages of preparation in the kitchen. There were a few bottles of good French champagne and, as a nod to Marta’s Nordic heritage, a traditional Danish chocolate cake.

The doctor looked forward to a pleasant feast with her boisterous family and anxiously awaited her husband’s arrival home.

The black car made its way up the short brick driveway, stopping at the front door. The two men got out. Carefully sliding him along the seat, Vladimir easily scooped the slight boy up into his arms and carried him up the front steps. 

Marta met him at the door.

“What have you brought me, Volodya?” she asked in surprise. 

“The boy is hurt," he replied.

Immediately snapping into action, the physician ordered the pair to take the boy to the dining room and place him on his back on the table.

“I’ll be back after I scrub up and get my medical bag.”

Marta quickly returned with her medical bag tucked under her arm, holding her freshly washed hands upright. Dropping the bag onto a dining room chair, she pulled on a fresh pair of surgical gloves. 

“Now, tell me what happened and exactly how you found him.” 

The men described the circumstances and the injuries they’d observed. 

“If he hit his head, we must assume a concussion. He could have sustained a neck or back injury in the fall. We’ll have to undress him, but carefully so we don’t move the spine or head any more than necessary. Let’s first get this jacket off.”

She guided the two as they gently took off the thin coat. “Gregory, would you please remove his boots and socks?” Gregory moved to the end of the table. 

“What do you want me to do?” asked Vladimir. 

“Bring me one of those rubber sheets we used for the boys’ bed, a bowl of hot water and some wash cloths. We’ll slide the sheet beneath him.” He dutifully left the room in search of the items. 

“What’s going on here, mother? A little surgery before supper?” came a new voice from the doorway.

“Don’t be a smart aleck, Sasha. Put your things down, scrub up and get over here. I could use an extra pair of hands, intern.” 

“Right away, doctor,” responded the soon-to-be, newest Dr. Aleksandr Kuryakin. 

By the time the young man returned with his medical bag, Vladimir and Gregory had the sheet beneath the boy, his trousers off, and his lower torso covered with a woollen blanket. Bare feet dangled over the end of the table. 

Marta cut away the ruined, blood-soaked shirt. When it was finally removed, what they saw stunned them all. 

A long, deep horizontal gash ran the width of his belly, exposing several layers of skin almost to the muscle. The blood had clotted, leaving a thick crust. A portion of torn shirt was stuck to the wound. 

“My god,” gasped Gregory. Someone’s tried to gut this boy like a deer. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.”

“Looks like he at least had the sense and strength to tear off his shirt tail and use it to apply direct pressure to stop bleeding,” Sasha observed. 

Retaining her professional composure, Marta ordered Sasha to re-check the boy’s vital signs. Chest congestion revealed he obviously had a bad case of pneumonia but was able to breath on his own. 

Satisfied he was stable enough to proceed, the pair worked to remove the wadded cloth, clean, stitch and bandage the wound. 

But not entirely without interruptions. 

One by one, the Kuryakin children arrived home from work and school and gathered at the dining room door, gawking in wonder at the odd sight on the table. 

“Ugh. Blood. I hate the sight of blood,” exclaimed Irena, peering through her fingers. 

“Blood, there’s blood? Where? Can I see?” asked the excited, teenager Konstantin. 

From the quiet Mikhail: “Are we having a family meeting tonight? I didn’t get the memo.” 

“I know Masha promised something special for supper, but this is ridiculous,” quipped the good-humoured Yuri. 

Finally, much to Marta’s relief, the serious, sensible oldest sister Tatiana took charge, ushering her siblings into the adjacent parlour, where Masha had laid out a tea. 

By then, the boy had been attended to, dressed in an old pair of Sasha’s pyjamas, and was ready to transport to a small guest bedroom off the kitchen.

Marta was moved when Irena returned with a fresh bowl of warm water and a washcloth. The patient looked only a few years older than she, and Irena had tears in her eyes as she wiped the dirt from the unconscious boy’s face. 

After helping move the boy into the bedroom and tucking him in, Vladimir insisted his exhausted wife and son rest with glasses of cognac as others in the family helped Masha set the table for the delayed meal. 

When they finally gathered, conversation was lively with speculation about who he was and how came to be lying, wounded, in a parking lot. 

Was he a runaway? Homeless? A gang member? Soldier? An innocent attacked by bandits? Everyone had a theory. 

Sasha, who’d recently become a cynic because of his long, exhausting hours at the hospital, was the biggest skeptic. 

“I just don’t understand how anyone allows themselves to get into these situations,” he said, passing the dish of Olivier salad to his eldest sister. 

“It’s complicated. There are many reasons why this can befall a person, Sasha,” admonished Vladimir. 

“Doesn’t seem that complicated to me.” 

“He obviously has no one to look after him,” said Marta. “Look at what he’s wearing. Summer clothing. Not nearly warm enough for winter. He has no socks, for heavens sake. And what he is wearing is filthy. No self-respecting mother or grandmother would let her boy run around like that.”

“Pass the duck, please. Did you notice how thin he is?” said Misha. “You can almost see his ribs. Like an orphan waif in a Charles Dickens novel.”

“A perfect reference from our literature student. Sashenka, think. That could just as easily have been one of us,” Tanya added gently. 

“Well, I got a closer look at him when I was wiping his face. He’s about your height and age. Even looks a little like you. I noticed he has a square jaw like you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Irena,” the intern snorted. “I look nothing like him.”

“You would if you had long shaggy hair, three days’ beard growth and was 30 pounds lighter,” Kostya quipped. 

Noticing Sasha was getting more upset, Vladimir cut off further debate with a wave of his hand. 

“All of this goes to show how fortunate we are, doesn’t it? We have a roof over our heads. A warm place to sleep. Plenty of delicious food, thanks to your mother and Masha. And most importantly, we have each other to love and care for. Everything we need for a wonderful New Year.”

The group nodded in agreement. 

“Now, how about a New Year’s toast? I hear there’s chocolate cake!”

Then they all raised their glasses to salute a new year. 

Marta whispered into her husband’s ear. “I’m going in to check on our guest. Sasha and I agree we should do shifts throughout the night. 

“If he wakes, he won’t know where he is. He is sure to be confused, in pain, and even frightened. The boy shouldn’t be left alone.”

“I’ll take charge here, love, then join you later,” replied Vladimir. 

“I love you, my big Russian teddy bear,” she said as she lightly kissed his lips.

“Have I told you lately that you are a saint?” he asked as he kissed her back. 

“Yes. Just not today. Happy New Year, my love.”

In the small bedroom just off the kitchen, Marta sat quietly in an armchair. Sipping a glass of tea, she watched the covers rise and fall on the boy’s chest as he slept.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he sat up with a start, gasping and crying out in agony as he opened his blue eyes and the pain hit. Exhausted from even this, he sank back into the pillows with a loud moan.

Marta reached out to touch his left shoulder in comfort. To her surprise, he recoiled from her touch as if he’d been slapped. 

Half-frightened, half-furious, he shot her an accusatory look. 

“Who are you?” he demanded in a weak, raspy voice.

“Where...? How did…” his voice trailed off as a new wave of pain rolled across his face. 

“Relax,” she said. “It’s all right. Just lie back and I’ll explain…”

“I have to go,” said the boy as he tried clumsily to swing his legs out over the edge of the bed. He simply didn’t have the energy to do it. 

“Please. You’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you. You must trust me.”

The boy sank back down into the bed, reluctantly, cautiously; glaring at the woman with suspicion. 

“Well?” he gasped in a voice that suggested he was used to giving commands. 

“First, don’t try to sit up. You’ve been stabbed in the stomach and you have a bad case of pneumonia. My husband found you out behind the building where he works. He and his driver brought you here. To our home.”

The boy looked at her strangely. “Why?”

“Because you were hurt. He couldn’t just leave you there to die.”

She reached out to stroke his face. Staring at her defiantly, he first drew back, but eventually softened his glare and allowed her to touch his hair. 

But only for a moment. 

Marta was surprised by his aversion to human touch. It was like he was being burnt. What on earth had happened to this poor child?

Speaking through raspy breaths, he asked again: “Why should you care about me? You don’t know me. You don’t owe me anything.”

Softening her voice, she asked him if he’d like some water. “You’re dehydrated. Drink?”

Pausing but never taking his eyes off hers, the boy nodded warily. She extended a cup of water and a straw. He began to sip slowly. 

“To answer your question, My husband saw you needed help. He knows I’m a doctor — one of my sons, too — and knew if he brought you home, Sasha and I could help.”

The blank look remained. He really didn’t understand. 

“Well, I don’t get it. But thank you. You probably saved my life. But I cannot stay here.”

“Nonsense. You can’t even get out of bed. I’m certainly not going to let you go without knowing there’s someone to care for you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“No. I will not allow you to leave without knowing you have someone. Now who can I call? Mother? Father?”

“Dead,” he said emotionlessly.

“Grandparents?”

“Same.”

“A brother or a sister?”

The boy paused and took on a far away look. “I lost them a long time ago.”

Marta’s heart strings tugged a little at the sad look on his face. Determined to get a smile, she asked, “wife?” That made him chuckle. 

“All right. Maybe you are too young for a wife. A girlfriend then?”

“I have no woman.”

“So, there is no one?”

He didn’t answer. 

“Then it’s settled. You will stay here and let us look after you for a while.”

The boy laid back quietly. His gaze travelled to the window, where the filtered streetlight revealed a steady stream of falling snow. 

“What day is it? Or should I ask night?”

“It’s New Years Eve, dear.” Looking at her watch, she corrected herself. “Actually, it’s past midnight. It’s New Year’s Day.”

He was silent and wistful for a long time. 

Breaking the silence, Marta asked him if he was hungry. “We had a wonderful New Year’s supper earlier. There’s plenty of food left over. Would you like me to bring you a plate? You might feel better with something warm in your belly.”

“Thank you, no. Not now. I’d like to sleep for a while. I am so very, very tired.”

“All right, dear,” Marta said, pulling up the covers to tuck him in. “Rest. You can have something when you wake up. There’s cake, you know.”

“Cake?” He asked, his interest finally peeked. “What kind?”

“Chocolate. Do you like chocolate?”

“Yes, very much,” he replied weakly. 

“Then you shall have some. By the way, I don’t think I introduced myself. 

“My name is Kuryakina. Marta Petrovna. What is yours?”

“Illya,” he replied. 

“Illya what?”

“Just... Illya.”

“Well, everything is going to be all right now, Illya. Happy New Year, dear.”

By the time Marta reached out to stoke his cheek again, the boy was asleep. 

Postscript: Sasha stood out on the back porch in his pyjamas and robe, having lit his third cigarette off the last one he’d just finished. 

A voice came from behind him. “What are you doing up and out here in the middle of the night?” asked older brother Misha. 

“Can’t sleep. Why are you up?”

“Checking on my little brother — who can’t sleep.”

Sasha chuckled. 

“Why are you BOTH up? It’s cold and snowy out here. You have no coats, you fools.”

“Hello, Tanya,” they said in chorus. “And you’re up because?”

“I saw how upset you got at supper, Sasha.”

“When?”

“When Irena said he looked like you.” 

“I’m not upset. It just made me think, that’s all.”

Misha’s voice stiffened. “Please don’t, Sasha. Not that again. It’s not him.”

“And you know this for sure?”

“I know how much you want it to be. But it can’t be. Our Illya is gone. He’s been gone for a long time. He’s not coming back.”

“So you say.”

“Sasha,” said Tanya gently. “Misha is right. Illya is not coming back. You must accept he’s dead.”

“No,” said Sasha emphatically. “We’re fraternal twins. If he was dead, I’d know it.”

Tanya and Misha exchanged resigned looks. They’d heard this all before.

“Sasha, face the facts. Illya ran off the night before they came to take us to the orphanage in Kyiv after our parents were killed. You remember that crazy note he left? The only coherent thing he wrote was that he knew where they were taking us and would be in touch soon. That was almost 10 years ago. If he had been able to, he would have been in touch long ago. He hasn’t. Ask yourself why.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t know we were adopted and moved to Moscow. Maybe he gave up and stopped looking. Maybe lots of reasons. But even Irena noticed we look alike.” 

“Lots of people look like you,” Misha sighed. “Remember last summer? You chased a jogger halfway across Red Square screaming Illya’s name. When you caught up with him, he punched you in the face and called for the militia. If you hadn’t apologized for the mistake, you would have been arrested.”

“I’m not saying it’s our Illya. I’m not saying it isn’t. But I am saying I intend to find out,” Sasha said stubbornly. 

Tanya looked at both her brothers. “Well, no one will find out anything tonight. Back to bed. Both of you. Now.”

Suddenly, the Kuryakin house became very quiet. From across Moscow, the faint, distant bells of a troika could be heard echoing through the frosty air.


End file.
